I’ve patched up the gashes and

refilled my ribs with lungs and arteries

with organic guts

made from orange pill bottles

and my feet pounding on pavement

and the loss of bits of me

that I added when I was an addict

still and addict

the pills dull the real world

put a thin film between me and

what really exists

then I’ve got another pretty pill bottle

with the antidote to

all the misplaced signals and words in my brain

and they settle my chaos

they restrain my destruction

make it shy away

retreat into its hollowed cave

where it’s made a home in my lungs

and it watches and paces

waiting

because it knows

and I know

that nothing on this entire planet

will ever feel as good

as my intentional  self destruction

 

 

 

 

I have not posted in a long time, but it’s only because I’ve very much moved on from the sticky quicksand that surrounded me for the past year or so. What I mean is I’ve been progressing my own self and fucking getting shit done and succeeding in the most satisfying way possible. What I don’t mean is I’ve stopped writing or painting. I’ve probably written novels since last posting, I’ve painted on so many canvases and figured out how to be good enough at it that my pieces are hung up in my college. I just haven’t felt the need to share it. Writing everything out and posting it for whoever in the planet wanted to read it was cathartic, and it still is to a degree. But I’ve discovered I don’t feel the need to give airtime to abusive individuals who were either parasitic to my existence or who so thoroughly gaslighted me that I thought other people’s violent actions were my fault. 

What I mean is, I’m doing better than I ever have in my entire life.

I’d give anything to never think of you again. It’s such bullshit that I still cry about you more than a year later. The blunt reality of it is you do not think of me, not now, you haven’t for a while. You’ve cared for even less, I don’t understand what the fuck it is about you that has a hold of me still but god fucking dammit I cannot wait for the day I’m finally free from it all. I can’t stand you having any effect on my life anymore. This will teach me to care for boys who never gave a second thought to me. God I was so stupid, I am so angry with my fucking head and heart right now. I know I’ll be okay but fucking FUCK I wish there was a way to erase you entirely from my memory. 

It is fucking depressing how much I’ve written about boys that never mattered at all

Did you know

Ever since you drove away

Crunching asphalt like crystal balls under tires

I’ve been  scouraging the planet

Looking for a trace of the sickly sweet elixir

You used to cure me with

Writing love songs a year later makes me feel like a pathetic fool

But I wrote this one just for you

And it won’t play on any radio

The words wnt apply to you and her

Whoever she may be

And there will be a she

To take my spot next to you on leather couches

To fit in the crook of your arms perfectly

As if God himself had carved us from

Flesh and bones

As puzzle pieces fitting together in satisfaction

I’ve cried so much over this

I’m sure I could flood the bank of that river

The one we used to sit in front of 

Drinking from sapphire blue bottles

Celebrating a year

Well we got ahead of ourselves didn’t we?

Let the memory of my lips fluttering

Like moths wings over the unmistakable glow

Of your Ocean eyes

Singe the back of our throat

Caught there like a habit

Remember my hand tracing constellations on your back

And let the pain of ending something

Fill you until only hollow conclaves

In your lung exist

I tore out both chambers for you

Laid them on your front lawn with a letter that read

Hold onto me

The red mixing with earth I loved to walk over

Mud and grass making my feet slide and 

I’d hold onto your shoulder

Like an anchor

Like a promise

That 1000 watt smile could power entire continents 

I tried my best to commit it all to memory

Knowing it’d someday end

I cried so much I swear I’d swim it all just to get back

To you

And us

Under rain, my toes lifting me to your chin

It’s those silly things I remember most

How cruel of life to give lovers perfect memory

I’ve been sleep walking in this house

Talking to myself

 No one tells you the aching never really goes away

And there is no bottle big enough

No pill strong enough 

To ebb away the pain

It persists and makes a home inside your heart

Inhabiting all the corners that have been drained of love and hope

Filling aunergone shadows

Lined with malice and discontentment

I wish you hadn’t given up

Junkies love company, they’re just like misery that way. It’s no wonder we used to make sure to buy two handles for the weekend. How many rainy days did I lose to laying in your bed while you smoked off aluminum foil? I feel like I didn’t even exist, then. In your bedroom like a secret neither one of us could keep, like our sobriety. Sitting on wet stairs in socks and sweaters, burning through money and trust and glass bottles lined up on the hand rails. Calling dealers at 3 am to show how much I didn’t love anyone at all. What better way to show I was new than to be 14 and intrinsically bind my veins to the bottle again, the way it’s always felt real and the only way my alien emotions and thought processes have ever even come close to making sense. Not glamourized like the television screen addicts, but the me and you with bloody noses pressed to mirrors and the games we used to play. We called it domestic violence, like making light of it made us better from the bitter reality we had both come to face with it. We laughed as fists met faces and we spit blood into each others mouths and onto your ethanol soaked carpet. It was like living in my own self agrandized and organized filth and hopelessness. Do you know how good it feels, deep down in the very depths of my Martian soul and spirit, to completely give up on yourself? And takeing it even a step further, to actively, methodically and recklessly engage in your own self destruction? It is the most euphoric I have ever felt. The most at home I’ve ever come to be. No mountain range or shoreline or snow bank or boys bedroom has ever come close. To the purity and heaven sent feeling of killing your own brain cells with every gulp of litera poison. I found a way to exist on this planet only to find out it made everyone around me see me for the alien creature I really am. That’s the only reason I hid away in your shitty moldy drug house. Because when you were blitzed and I was blitzed, we were both speaking the same alien language. And it made sense. 

If, instead of leaving your brand new unopened pack of marlboros alone when you accidentaly leave them in his bedroom, he smokes the entire pack before you your next weekend drunken visit…
He doesn’t love you

I understand that no one owed it to me to stay by my side or help out when I was slammed out of my mind for days at a time. And I know I was the one who actively hid it all , but I hid it out of fucking shame and embarrassment. No one wants to admit that not even moving two states away can get rid of the itching of sobriety at 10 am every morning. No one wants to tell the boy they thought they were in love with that they can’t function without taking an 8 dollar bottle of vodka to the face everymorning. What a sick twisted godsend it was that his house was across the street from a liquor store and his friends were always down to party. I was living and drinking like a college boy without attending college, while being a girl only drinking and eating enough to keep her from puking in her 19 year old boyfriend’s twin bed. It’s easy for me to forget the bad parts when I think of the summer glow everything was washed in back then. But it hurts when the reality hits, and I recall the way his love was only a love of convenience, and when real world issues and my real world problem of drowning myself in plastic alcohol bottles no longer suited his midwestern suburban boy next door life. It’s easy to blame myself and put all the guilt on me and my habit, but I can’t help but know in the back of my new recovering mind that I know, without a doubt, if the roles had been switched I would have cried on the floor with him. Those salty, Pacific Ocean kind of sobs that tear at your esophagus. And I would have driven him to the hospital myself, I would have been there waiting when he got out. I would worked to fix the love that addiction and deteriorating health tore up, I would have bandaged it myself with bloodied fingers. Nothing would have kept me from holding his hand and making sure he knew I was there. I was standing by him. Because when you love someone, you are here for them, win lose or draw. I lost. And a weaker man left me. And I can’t blame his for his cowardice. But I can honestly say, he didn’t love me. And I don’t think he even knew, or knows, what love really is. And that’s no longer any burden on my mind. I drew a new hand, now. And the next one I show it to, I will make sure they will remain if I lose again, or more likely, when I prosper.

I replay every moment in my head so damn much I’m surprised they haven’t faded and torn from all the use. The yellow glow of summer sunsets in bed with you is still palpable. It’s like no matter how many poems or letters I write addressed to a ghost, there’s always more I need to get off my chest and out of my heart about you, and us, and the bullshit that has been borne from something I loved and coveted so much. And the boy in my head isn’t you. Your body is in tact but the soul inside has faded. Everything I want and mean is a contradiction of the next thought. I mourn the death of you and the demise of us and the way my eyes do not shine anymore when I look in the mirror. And it won’t be fair to the next one who loves me, the state you’ve left me in. A man’s word is a malleable monument erected to please a girls eyes for just a minute. I hate you for making me this way. I hate you for the love you broke and he promises I should have known better than to listen to. The worst part is this isn’t killing you at all. It never did. You never loved me. You don’t know the first thing about me, or about love, or about how to love me. You were a faker. And actor. A con artist with good looks as a distraction from the foolish bullshit you spoon fed me for a year. I know it’s petty, but one day I hope you feel half as eviscerated as I do every fucking day. I’d rather take a bullet to the brain than keep having things to say about and to you. I’m going to kill you off in my story. You’ve taken up too much time detracting from the protagonists progress. I’ll put you back in your place for good.

Maybe someday I’ll publish everything I’ve written about you

It seems so pathetic that it all still lingers in my mind

And it’s great kindling for stringing words of eloquence 

Together with summer sun adjectives

But I’d trade all the inspiration 

I’ve gotten from you

And the end of us

To erase it all for good

Scrubbed away so raw

That not even the universe

Remembers our silhouettes in your door frame

Or the arch of our backs

That set winding roads on fire

I’d give up all of the descriptions

And the memories of chlorine kissed skin

Under stars

Love written in pen 

On our hearts

A route forged by us

From the Pacific Ocean

To the mountain tops 

I’d give every moment

Every bottle

Every bracelet

Back

If it meant never having to think of you again